J OHN WEBSTER is not entirely correct: men in particular have stood amaz'd at their own deformity, as the production in 1979 of Bernard Pomerance's drama The exemplifies. Based on the life of John Merrick, a famous Victorian sideshow performer hideously disfigured by neurofibromatosis, the play garnered Tony Awards, Obies, the Drama Desk Award, and the New York Drama Critics Circle Award as the best play of the year; but its success in New York, and in London the previous year, can hardly be attributed to the reputation of its little-known author or to the drawing power of the actors in the principal parts.1 Moreover, some critics, an ungenerous minority, maintained that the play's merit did not originate in Pomerance's superior or even competent craft. John Simon, for example, found the structure imbalanced and accused Pomerance of suspending dramatic action in the later scenes to create a vehicle for anti-imperialist polemic.2 Pomerance indeed may be less skilled than Bertolt Brecht or Edward Bond at designing engaging drama that at the same time furthers an enterprise of social education, although he is quite obviously influenced by Brechtian theory. But even if Pomerance were Brecht, this metamorphosis would in no way account for the contemporary celebrity of John Merrick: American audiences have seldom given box-office support to materialist drama like Bond's, Brecht's, or John Arden's. Why then were most reviewers and large audiences captivated by the play? David Lynch's 1980 film The (in which Pomerance had no hand) increased viewers' knowledge of Merrick and, like the play, enjoyed both critical acclaim and considerable popular success. Although more filmgoers lined up to see The Empire Strikes Back, The Blues Brothers, and Smokey and the Bandit, Part Two, audiences were moved by this skillful black-and-white melodrama re-creating the gritty environment of late Victorian factories and back-alley peepshows.3 Lynch effectively represents industrialized London by deftly adapting the cinematic style of his earlier cult success Eraserhead (1977), a style punctuated by montages of urban mechanization, the constant hum of manufacturing noise, and motifs of burning gas jets and clouds of steam. By the early 1980s, largely because of Pomerance and Lynch, Merrick's story was widely known; but the play and film are only two examples of the flood of publications about Merrick that appeared in the 1970s and 1980s: Ashley Montagu's The Man: A Study in Human Dignity (1971), Fred Shannon's The Life and Agony of the (1979), a published version of the Lynch filmscript, Michael Howell and Peter Ford's The True History of the (1980), Christine Sparks's The Man: A Novel (1980), and so on. How does one explain this cultural rediscovery of the Elephant Man nearly one hundred years after his death in 1890? What characteristics of John Merrick and his life are most fascinating today? Further, though both Lynch's film and Pomerance's drama share some textual features, they are so different in crucial respects as to form opposing mythologies of Merrick's history. What differing attractions do the two offer, and how are these attractions bound up in theatrical and filmic spectating? We contend that Pomerance's and Lynch's versions of the history of John Merrick combine to provide an unusually wide variety of pleasures, some spectatorial and libidinal, others more intellectual or contemplative. That is, Merrick's story has been and can be shaped into various forms, each with its own array of audience expectations and satisfactions. We hope to illuminate these by positing three distinct, albeit at times related and overlapping, sources of pleasure in Lynch's and Pomerance's treatments of Merrick's life: the conventions of melodrama, the psychological gratifications of both cinematic spectating and the viewing of sideshow freaks, and the critique of powerful Victorian institutions and colonial 868
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